


In This Wicked City

by lavenderbread



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Noir, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Gun Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderbread/pseuds/lavenderbread
Summary: Sullivan is assigned to a case in America's Chicago during the prohibition era, undercover as a speakeasy patron, looking for clues that will lead him to the elusive mob circle who are running the bootlegging operations in the city.But there is a bigger trouble brewing, and Sullivan finds himself falling for someone he's not entirely sure he can trust: the handsome and flirtatious speakeasy performer Sidney Carter.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	In This Wicked City

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first long piece I have committed to thus far, but I'm excited to be writing [it!!!](https://fatherr-brown.tumblr.com/post/620972384638451713/totally-forgot-i-queued-this-but-also-featuring-a)
> 
> Yes I interchange the terms 'detective' and 'inspector', please pretend they mean the same thing, and don't look into historical accuracy of the prohibition era - I made an effort but turns out it's hard to write au's lmao, who knew?! No doubt there are also inconsistencies and errors so lemmeno if you spot any :)
> 
> Anyway, this was inspired mainly by hearing Peggy Lee's cover of Little Willie John’s 'Fever' (which wasn't actually out in the 20s/30s but nevermind), and partly by The Great Gatsby (F Scott Fitzgerald). Hopefully they come together and create something semi-decent!

The diner seemed to be a prosperous enough establishment, air thick with the scent of coffee, buzzing with the chatter of lawfully unsuspecting customers enjoying their afternoon in idle gossip. Perhaps lawfully unsuspecting was a forgiving assumption; Sullivan found himself wondering how many of the people there knew what was going on in the cellar below, for the apparent innocence of the place was only a front for a much more illicit business. It was a shame, he thought, that once he had finished this job, the joint would be shut down, the owner put away for harbouring a speakeasy.

"How can I help you, sir?" the man behind the till asked with off-putting enthusiasm. Nerves dressed in vigour - Sullivan could see right away it was the type of charisma that would fall away under any kind of pressure. He wouldn't withstand a second of interrogation, so perhaps it was small mercy that the police needed the business open for the moment.

-

This was the first big case the Inspector had been assigned to. Sure, he had had his fair share of raids - since the Prohibition Act passed there was no shortage of local bootleggers to convict, and alcohol to confiscate - but this time it was more than a simple bust. A larger investigation was in play; an undercover job, which (if successful) would lead him and the rest of the Chicago's police department to the mob heading these bootlegging operations.

-

"Jay sent me," Sullivan said casually, second guessing himself for a split second. _That was the right name wasn't it?_ The server tensed up slightly and glanced around carefully. He leant towards the detective and lowered his voice to a concerned hush.

"Through that staff door, down the stairs on the left."

Sullivan nodded and followed the directions. Slipping through, deducing that frequenters used a more discreet entrance, he found himself in a pantry. To the right there was a labelled store room, and, as promised, stairs on the left leading down to the speakeasy. He trotted down the steps, and pushed open the innocuous looking door.

Stepping across the threshold was like walking through a wall into an entirely new world. The atmosphere was hot; heavy with alcohol, and hazy with cigar smoke that lingered at the back of his tongue, the consistent din of tipsy hysterics giving the space a sense of inexhaustible vivacity. The carpet was an obnoxious red, and Sullivan was convinced that this was probably the only establishment that made it look appropriate. Scattered around were circular tables, accompanied by cushioned chairs facing a modestly sized stage which harboured a band and a microphone. Flapper girls and burlesque dancers strutted around, followed by the eyes of lecherous men in flaunty suits.

"May I?" asked the doorman, pouncing on him before he had a chance to take it all in.

"Oh, of course," he said, passing his grey fedora and overcoat across, "thank you." Taking a deep breath he wandered over to the bar. As much as he had been trained for undercover assignments, this was not his scene, and it took a great effort to come across as at ease. "A whisky, please." The barman watched him with a patronising smirk as he poured the liquid out into a glass.

"Well, you're a polite one, aren't ya?"

Sullivan cleared his throat quietly, loosening his tie. _Did it suddenly just get warmer?_ he wondered, turning over the possibility that he had already blown his cover. He took a sip of the whisky, unable to hide a grimace. 

"What's this?"

"The best we got," the barman answered. It was blatantly exponentially watered down. "You wont notice once you've had enough," he leered. Sullivan bowed his head in surrender, and took his drink to one of the tables closer to the stage, where the band was playing an instrumental number. Sullivan resolved to question the barman later, he would inevitably be a good lead. This evening, however, was to scope the place out, get to grips with the ins and outs of how it ran, and determine who might be a person of interest.

***

Sullivan had sunk a few whiskies when the band stopped. He didn't notice at first, until some of the ladies began to whistle and giggle amongst themselves. He looked up to see that there was a man adjusting the microphone. He wore a pale suit, complete with a bowtie, hair pomaded back; though there was something roguishly unkempt about him that Sullivan couldn't quite put his finger on. The Inspector realised, with a sense of mortification which he was never quite able to supress, that he found this something quite agreeable.

The new performer tapped the mic to check it was working, and the bassist began. The drums introduced a slow swing rhythm and the audience clapped. Then he began to sing - a rendition of _'Fever'._

He grasped onto the stand, purring the words into the microphone head with an easy sultriness. _'You give me fever'._ He seemed to be looking right at Sullivan, smirking shamelessly and offering a careless wink. The detective shifted in his chair, glancing around guardedly, dipping his head as a blush crept into his face. Was that personal? _Of course not_ he rationalized - people like him flirted with everything - God knew he had met enough of the kind who thought that honeyed words would get them out of a cell.

Some stirred up instinct (or was it panic?) told him to leave, but that would be no good for the case. Making a point of avoiding eye contact, Sullivan waited for the performance to end, and managed a clap.

He suddenly became conscious that he must be drawing attention to himself now - sat alone for so long with an empty glass, and was about to stand up, when a lady clad in feathers (and not much else besides) trailed her gloved hand across his shoulders.

"Oh, excu-" he cleared his throat, jumping at the touch. Words tripped over his tongue in an embarrassing inability to articulate an appropriate response, and it took all of Sullivan's restraint not to bolt just to avoid the situation.

"Hey Eve, leave the man alone," somebody said (much to the momentary relief of the Inspector), and she casually obliged without a word. Sullivan looked up to see the singer. "Sorry. Sidney Carter," he introduced himself, offering his hand. Hesitantly, for being caught off guard, the Inspector reciprocated the handshake, forcing down the feeling in his chest as they touched.

"Sullivan," he replied, "Thomas."

"I've not seen you here before," he remarked, assuming a seat next to the detective, removing his bowtie and undoing his shirt a few buttons. Sullivan swallowed thickly as his cologne found it's way into his lungs, rousing some complicated sensation inside.

"A tipoff from a friend," he answered. It wasn't a complete lie, it was just that his friend happened to be chief of police.

"You're not like the other patrons," probed Sidney, voice gilded with intrigue.

"How do you mean?"

"You haven't batted an eye at any of the women here."

Sullivan reached for his glass, putting it back down when he realised it was empty. The words threatened a flush, creeping up his neck and into his cheeks again. _Don't be suspicious,_ he tried to compose himself; he was here on business, and was expecting some questioning about his identity, but he hadn't come prepared to justify himself in matters of his disposition. Stuck for a response, Sullivan opted to avoid the subject completely.

"You mean to say you've been watching me, Mr Carter?" he returned, realising afterwards how dangerously suggestive it sounded. _Oh God, was he accidentally flirting?_

"Maybe, maybe not," he shrugged, "drink?"

"I should get going," Sullivan refused, all of a sudden overcome with anxiety which he could not longer ignore or withstand. The playful drunken tittering now seemed too loud and grating, the blaring of the music discordant and cacophonous. Something about this Sidney Carter had him nervous and unable to think about anything else but getting his words right.

"Then I'll see you out," Sidney offered cooly, standing, "I've got no other performances tonight." Sullivan couldn't think of a valid excuse fast enough to justify turning the proposal down, and so he agreed reluctantly.

"Very well."

Collecting his hat and coat, he followed Carter back out of the speakeasy, up the stairs, and through a well-disguised door that he hadn't noticed before, which led into an alley behind the Diner. Sullivan assumed that this must be where the established patrons arrived and left - it would be discreet enough for anyone to slip in without drawing attention to themselves.

The air was cool, and he welcomed the stark contrast from the stuffiness of the speakeasy. It was late evening, Sullivan noted, glancing at his watch, but the sky was still a tender blue; somewhere on a horizon the sun would be burning out in a stubborn display of ochre and scarlet. Nights like these he wished he lived near the water.

With a touch of irony, Sullivan realised that he was not entirely sober, and now he was outside, everything seemed sharp and surreal. Looking down the alley he could see the blaring artificial light of the main street, and hear the distant din of traffic, which somehow gave the impression of being both close by and far away. 

"Light?" Sidney asked, grounding him back to the darkness of where they stood. Sullivan took a cigar and let Carter light it. The flame of Sid's lighter flickered briefly over his face, painting his features with captivating warmth. All sounds died away. There was a certain intimacy in the whole action; the way Sid took a step forward so that Sullivan could smell the Altoids and tobacco on his breath, the way his hands gently shielded the lighter from the breeze. Everything inside was screaming at him in a stormy conflict of desire and restraint. Sullivan could feel himself losing composure, controlled walls crumbling around him, the very principles he fought so hard against resurfacing in a tragic kind of hopeful grief... "You alright?"

The sound of traffic returned.

"Yes," Sullivan replied, apologising through a deep breath, all of a sudden nauseous. "I really should go."

"'Course," he nodded, taking a drag of his cigar and blowing the smoke off to the side before fixing his gaze on the Inspector. "You need a ride?"

"I appreciate it, but I can walk from here," Sullivan answered, resentment of himself for even entertaining the possibility of an implication in the offer bleeding into his tone of voice, so that his words came out sounding harsher than he meant them to. He looked down, and more mannerly added: "thank you." Sid didn't seem to take offence, though Sullivan found himself wishing he did - perhaps if he hated him it would be easier. Instead there he stood, stupidly handsome and charismatic.

"You'll be coming back here? To the club, I mean?"

"Yes, I think I shall, Mr Carter."

"Please, call me Sidney," he insisted, a smirk almost forming as his eyes flickered down to Sullivan's lips in a barely noticeable glance.

"Well then, Sidney, I'll see you 'round," Sullivan promised, flicking his cigar on the floor and crushing it with his heel. He gave Sid one last formal nod, swallowing all of his feelings in an indignant refusal to let them overwhelm him again, before hurrying off down the alley to the comfort of the synthetic effervescence of Chicago's twilight.

***

As he turned the corner and began his walk home, Sullivan found his thoughts trailing, of their own accord, back to Carter; to the undone buttons of his shirt, the curve of his lips, the hum of his voice, and the thick scent of Zizanie. He scoffed as he lit another cigar. This was absolutely not how it was supposed to go.

Sullivan was a detective - Sidney's amiability had landed him every opportunity to obtain some kind of information regarding the case; he was, essentially, a suspect by association with the establishment. But one look and Sullivan had shut out all protocol, abandoning procedure in a foolish pull of the heart.

There was every chance that Sullivan was falling for the enemy, and there was great risk to be had once feelings were involved with matters of business.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Also, sidenote (for some context): 'Zizanie' is a patchouli and sandalwood cologne (launched in 1932 by Fragonard) and is referred to as a 'refined, oriental, woody fragrance'. Allegedly it's the same scent Frank Sinatra was wearing when he met Ava Gardner! Historically inaccurate for the prohibition era, but I included it anyway, for fun factor.
> 
> The next chapter will get into some more backstory.
> 
> Thanks again, have a wonderful day!


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